The Daryl Dixon Equation
by The Readers Muse
Summary: "..It was logical, precise. Clean cut and focused. – ...Yet so completely and utterly doomed...
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is my fill response to prompt posted on LJ at the TWD_Kink meme: "Daryl/Glenn - Glenn decides he is going to woo Daryl. _Bonus #1: He wasn't/isn't gay, but he might be a bit gay for little D. So bonus being he has a cute little sexual identity crisis for a bit. Bonus #2: He has never dated a man. This is a problem. How do men show affection? He attempts to figure this out. Cue to the lolz. = Aka: Glenn does it ALL wrong.__ Bonus #3: Daryl liked him the whole time but was waiting for Glenn to make a move. And is all like: "lol you little Korean weirdo you." then proceeds to 'show him some manly affection."_ *Rated for: adult language, adult situations, light slash, and adorableness.

**Authors Note #2:** Please read and review. I am excited to see what you all think. I am open to comments, advice, and constructive criticism.

**The Daryl Dixon Equation**

He wasn't sure exactly why he kept dwelling on it. Or why his mind kept cycling back to it at the oddest times and places. It was his way of dealing he supposed. Like Shane and Carl were to Lori and Rick, and Andrea was to Dale.

But somewhere along the line he'd become _obsessed_ with numbers. _Equations._ He'd started seeing them everywhere. Breaking the world down into prime numbers and raw decimal points in his head. It was predicable, reassuring, and _tangible; _something that actually made sense in a time when everything else seemed to be spiraling down into impossibility and chaos. - In a small way he supposed it had made him feel safe; in control. Like he had a good handle on things rather then not a _fucking _clue.

He saw numbers in the ratios of men and women in the quarry camp. And in the number of children that had survived versus that of the elderly. In the percentages of single parent families as apposed to that of nuclear, two parent families; and what differences could be observed in the behavior between them. He noticed how the largest percentage of single person survivors were men. And that the smaller percentage of single women that had survived had been quick to form close ties with other the female survivors almost immediately. Whereas most of the male survivors chose to remain friendly, but notably distant in their dealings with the others. As if uncertain of their welcome or unwilling to get too close to anyone other then that of their own shadows.

It made him wonder about things like the logistics of gender and survival. For instance, why did the camp contain more male survivors then it did women? Statistically it didn't compute. Especially when one considered the fact that in pure percentages women unquestionably out numbered that of men in North America. The discrepancy there fascinated him.

The first time he'd thought about it he'd ended up with a ridiculous mental image of a woman trying to outrun a crowd of walkers in six inch high heels. And couldn't help but snort out an amused laugh as his brain entertained him with a series of progressively hilarious scenarios. – At least until he'd realized how bad and probably _accurate _such an example actually was, especially in the first few days of the infection; and promptly felt terrible about the entire thing.

Because it was obviously far more complex then that, after all one had to consider all the options, such as the idea of dependents. For example, a single mother with one or more children was less likely to abandon, or attempt escape without them. Something that certainly didn't bode well for that of single parent families survival given the fact that young children often complicated ones possibility of escape ten fold. And naturally, a woman would probably be even _less_ likely to kill her children if one or all of them became infected. – After all, it was hard to listen to logic and reason as far as your children were concerned. Lori and Rick were evidence enough of that reality. A parent would do just about anything for their child. And sometimes that didn't necessarily equated to doing the_ right _thing either.

One also had to consider the equality of access to appropriate weapons, guns for example. After all, how many women ran around packing heat outside of Texas? Statistically male gun owners made up the lasting majority in that regard. – He wondered how that might have affected the odds of survival. Access to guns wasn't necessarily the be-all-end-all of surviving the apocalypse. After all, he certainly hadn't had one in the beginning. But even he had to admit that they dead useful. He didn't care how many geeks Daryl had taken out with his crossbow, or how many he himself had killed with his bat, he'd take a gun in his waistband _any_ day.

But why stop at considering the logistical patterns of survival for simply that of single women and children? What about taking into account the ratio of single survivors versus that of familial units? In terms of their own camp, statistically speaking, single survivors of both gender vastly outnumbered that of surviving families. Why?

It was something he'd noticed whenever he caught a glimpse of the free ways and highways that surrounded the outskirts of the towns they'd past in the months after they'd fled from Atlanta. Because if the wrecks on the highways were any indication, when the shit had officially hit the fan, families had fled _together_, not apart. - Something that only ended up making them bigger, more intriguing looking meat targets as far as the geeks were concerned. With the majority of them either dying together when their vehicles were swarmed, or turning in transit and killing each other before the surviving spouse could even get the kids out of their car seats.

_Either way it brought a whole different meaning to the phrase 'meals on wheels,' that's for damn sure._

As one might imagine the permutations were as endless as they were intriguing. - And needless to say, along with his supply runs to Atlanta and helping out around camp, his new found hobby kept him remarkably busy. Especially in the first few months; long before Rick, Merle, and the all out _disaster_ that had been their last few trips to Atlanta. - In fact somewhere along the line he'd almost managed to convince himself that he _didn't_ feel so utterly alone. _..Almost._

His psych major buddies would have probably gone on in great lengths about the empirical nature of the primal male animal, or the social construction of gender in post disaster situations. Personally, he had no idea, and honestly, he didn't really care either way. His interest in the matter was purely from a mathematical standpoint. He had always liked numbers, and decided not to look too much further into it then that. – Because honestly? His imagination could be a scary ass place. .._There be dragons and etc._

But it wasn't until the CDC that he switched from numbers of gender and social construction to numbers of an entirely different kind. .._Particularly the Daryl Dixon kind._ Like, for example, focusing on how many times he could recall hearing the man laugh, or seeing him smile. - How many times he'd watched the man swallow an explosive reaction or a harsh word, trading an instinctual impulse for that of a heavy silence or a pointed word.

The equations were oddly mind boggling. Because apparently, trying to quantify Daryl Dixon was a far bigger task then he'd originally thought. It was like the definition of the man alone was as indefinable as that of his character. Refusing to be tied down or harnessed in anyway. - It was fucking _mind blowing._

The mathematician in him was having right tantrum over it to be honest. He was used to well researched theories and solvable problems. To equations that had specifically defined definitions and logic based algorithms. He lived for pie charts and strategy diagrams. For the counter pointed weights of mass and density that could be pin pointed down to the smallest possible measurement.

He was used to understanding things. _People_. It was all the same. He understood how things like supply and demand worked. How consumption patterns could be plotted to display a certain equations that could be recognized on a nation wide scale. Or how to calculate the exact amount of gas you had left in your fuel tank when the red light clicked on. - Practical things, _useful _things. Things that could be definitively answered rather then left to languish in the wishy-washy grey area and unsolvable hell holes that were literary and historical theory_._

And true to form Daryl shot all that right to hell. The problem of Daryl Dixon was unexpected. Daryl was different. He was interesting, irritating, confounding, and a whole lot like teasing your tongue across an electric fence to see if it was live or not. - He was an equation that wouldn't work through. All raw decimals and crapped up prime numbers.

…He loved a challenge, sure. But damn _everything_ to hell if this wasn't becoming a bit ridiculous…

It didn't take him long to realize that he was probably going to have to do something about this. …_For science. Obviously._ - Because one sleepless night dwelling on a Dixon was more then enough in his opinion. Either way, the reality of the whole thing was beyond frustrating. How could someone like Daryl Dixon be _this _complex? Hell, how could _anybody be? _He _had_ to know. - Besides, it was simple chemistry. For every action there was an equal and opposition reaction. Cause and effect. But if no action occurs, then either for the good or the bad of it there would be no resulting reaction.

_And apparently, since no one else saw the need to step up to the plate, he was going to have to be the one that took one for the team. – Again._

So, he set about his strategy with a methodology taken directly from the scientific method. It was perfect. Impartial by design, structured to cut down on any bias and supposition that could negatively affect the outcome of the experiment being performed. It was logical, precise. Clean cut and focused. – …And so completely and utterly _doomed..._

Because somewhat ironically, he actually got stuck on the first god damned step. Hell, technically it wasn't even the first _official _step. It was the mini step that came _before _the first step. The kind of basic, step by step process that was practically synonymous with teaching the scientific method to snot nosed first year juniors. Kids barely out of elementary school that still noogied each other on the playground and played lava monster on the jungle gym.

**Step 1: Ask a Question**

According to what he remembered from his beginners' physics text book, the scientific method was ultimately based around that of a question. - A question regarding something that was both observable and an undeniably present within the current conception of scientific understanding. It revolved around a basic understanding of how the world works. The essential how, what, where, when, and why's of scientific theory. It was basically people asking questions about how the world worked. Like at what temperature does water boil? At what temperature does it freeze? It was simple really.

And of course, this was where all his problems_ really_ started. - Because in all honesty, what _was_ his question? And exactly _why_ was he doing this again?

The whole thing forced him to actually consider just _why_ he was so interested in Daryl Dixon in the first place. - For example, why did he give a flying crap how often the man smiled or with how much regularity he could pull a grudging snort of laughter from behind those inexplicably hesitant lips? And on that note, why did he even care?

…And naturally, just as he was forcing himself to consider those very same thoughts, that was _also_ the same moment where his brain and his dick_ finally_ caught the clue bus…

_Well fuck._

**A/N:** Please let me know what you think? - And indeed if you think I should continue? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

"_But the reason I call myself by my childhood name is to remind myself that a scientist must also be absolutely like a child. If he sees a thing, he must say that he sees it, whether it was what he thought he was going to see or not. See first, think later, then test. But always see first. Otherwise you will only see what you were expecting." ―Douglas Adams. (From: "So Long, and Thanks for All the Fish.")_


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** See original chapter for complete disclaimers, warnings, and other related details. *Rated for: adult language, adult situations, light slash, and adorableness.

**The Daryl Dixon Equation**

_**Chapter 2**_

He wasn't going to lie. It had taken him a few days to work through_ that _cluster fuck of a realization. Forcing himself to come to terms with it in the only way he knew how; with a whole lot of deep inner thought and equally as private mental freak outs. – In a lot of ways it was kind of like going through downtown Atlanta being napalmed all over again. Something he hadn't wanted to revisit _ever_. God knows he _still _had the nightmares.

In reality he was certain the whole thing was absolutely ridiculous. It was down right petty, and probably the last thing in the world he should actually be obsessing over. But for some reason, this happening during the god damn_ apocalypse_ just felt like the world's single most underhanded kick to the balls. – You know, save for the whole undead cannibal thing...

Because_ really_, he was having his big gay crisis _now? _And worse, over _Daryl Dixon_ of all people? – And on top of that he wasn't sure what was more distressing, his impending sexual identity crisis or the fact that the subject of his current, rather suicidal infatuation just _had _to be the man himself. – Either way, he figured that life really wasn't fair these days.

_If it had ever been in the first place.._

He spent close to three days riding his own, self made emotional roller coaster to hell before he had the sense of mind to put a stop to it. - Essentially slamming his hand down on the emergency brake and cart wheeling his way back into reality just in time to avoid the group wide intervention. And it was about fucking time too. Dale and Rick had started fixing him with those piercing, all too knowing looks and Carol had been doing her best to over feed him. Shooting him patient, motherly glances from underneath her long lashes. Promising him things he knew he had no right to ask. Things like comfort, and unquestioning understanding.

And while he loved them all, he couldn't help but want to hate those looks. They made him feel like he was eight years old and trying to keep a secret from his mum. _Again_. – He really needed to start working on his poker face one of these days.

He'd seriously considered just abandoning the whole thing. Tempted to explain it away as end of the world induced insanity or far too much trouble then it was worth. Or perhaps even both. But in the end, since he'd placed himself in the shoes of the scientist in the first place he felt it was only fair to.._ science _(obviously) that he press on.

After all getting a better understanding of the man could only_ benefit_ the lot of them in the long run. It was, at its heart an essential social experiment. He was doing everyone a favor by deciding to pursue this really. – _Or at least that's what he kept telling himself anyway. _

Apparently ignorance was only bliss if one was _actually _ignorant. – Go figure.

**A/N:** Sorry for the tiny chapter. I got busy with school and lost my momentum on this fiction so this is me trying to regain the feel. It's been two weeks of school related hell so I am only just getting back into fandom today. Hopefully chapter three will be up soon! Again, sorry for the small chapter. I hate to do that to you guys after such a long spell between updating...But this time there was nothing for it. - Please let me know what you think? And indeed if you think I should continue. Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

"_...Man will occasionally stumble over the truth, but usually manages to pick himself up, walk over or around it, and carry on." – Winston Churchill._


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** See original chapter for complete warnings and description. *Rated for: adult language, adult situations, light slash, and adorableness.

**The Daryl Dixon Equation**

_**Chapter 3**_

**Step #2: Observation and description of a phenomenon or group of phenomena.**

He was picking his way through the aisles of a run down grocer about a half a mile from camp when he decided it was high time he started his background research. Attempting to compile everything he knew about Daryl Dixon into one neat mental pile.

_Or at least he tried too.._

He was halfway between the Ritz crackers and the sunflower seeds when he realized he had a serious problem. - Because almost immediately he was overwhelmed by a veritable barrage of conflicting information, half truths, and some remarkably biased observations.

– _Fuck. _The man never _could _make it easy could he?

Because the truth was that beyond the few thread bare tid-bits he'd picked up in the intervening months, he suddenly realized that he knew next to _nothing_ about him. And for good reason too. As when the others waxed nostalgic about the past Daryl rarely took a turn. Obviously having little interest in the concept of 'share time' as the others talked about any number of things, the people they'd known, and what they missed for the most part. But at least it was something.

After all he'd learned that T-dog had played college level football all throughout his undergrad, famously leading his team to five straight wins against the state champions in his final year. And more then once he'd listened, inexplicably rapt as Dale had regaled them all with stories of his late wife, Irma. Sending them into frequent bouts of nervous giggles as he told them about curfews and date nights spent kissing and necking in the back seat of his souped up Jag until all hours of the morning. He'd even caught Lori remarking that she often regretted putting university on hold to marry early and have Carl whenever she was in a particularly foul mood and out of the earshot of everyone save for Dale, Carol, and himself.

Little by little the others had opened up, sharing bits and pieces of their lives the longer the months dragged on. He supposed it was cathartic in a way. But the same could not be said for Daryl. The man was just about as mysterious and closed off as he'd been the day he and Merle had first rolled into the quarry camp. He didn't even know the _basics_. He didn't know if Daryl's parents were still alive, his friends, maybe even a wayward girlfriend or two. He didn't know what Daryl _did_ before all this. What his life had been like, where he'd worked, his hobbies, his favorite TV shows. _Nothing._

Hell, he didn't even know how old the man was!

Not that he hadn't tried mind you.. In fact more then once, in the rare moments when Daryl was off hunting and the others were suitably distracted; he'd tip-toed his way through Daryl's tent. Not really _snooping_, just.._looking. _He needed _something _to work with_. _A credit card, a driver's license, _anything. _– But so far? Bubkiss.

_If he didn't know any better he'd swear that the man was being unknowingly difficult on purpose.._

Besides, how was he supposed to go about compiling accurate, unbiased research when he didn't have access to any of the modern amenities? You know, like the _internet_. Hell, even having a god damned _phone book_ would be a step up at this point. At least that way he could figure out if the man actually _existed_ in the first place.

And to think a few months ago, in less the 0.45 seconds flat he could have had the man's whole life story at his finger tips. A few pointed clicks here and a discreet hacking program there and viola! – The whole thing made his fingers itch, twanging in that strange phantom jerk he'd come to associate as one of the more permanent symptoms of computer withdrawal. Having long given up on trying to convince himself that internet withdrawal wasn't as pathetic as it actually sounded.

_God he missed the internet._

**Step #3: Formulation of a hypothesis to explain the phenomena.**

Deciding to skip ahead in lue of his depressing lack of background information, he soon came face to face with the third and arguably most central step of the entire theory. - Creating a hypothesis; or question if you were looking to simplify things.

The step itself was easy enough. _..In practice_. - He tried to recall the basic formula. It was based around a question. An educated guess about how an experiment or process might work. So at its heart it was really just a fill in the blank affair in the beginning. "If _[I do this]_, then _[this]_ will happen."

Mentally he mapped it out. 'If I ask Daryl about his sexual preferences _then_ what?' They will ever find my body? Will I ever regain feeling in my extremities? Will he use my blood to oil his crossbow? – _Euck._

He'd only gotten to about the fifth permutation when he forced himself to stop. Wincing internally as the scenarios got progressively more depressing. The whole thing was startlingly reminiscent to playing a potentially life altering game of Mad Libs rather then a logical, systematic process. – After all a scientific exercise wasn't supposed to punch you in the teeth if you propositioned it.

_Fuck_. He was _so _doomed.

The words of his first year physic's professor; still as high pitched and nasal as he had the misfortune of remembering echoed in the back of his brain. Droning on about how you had to construct your hypothesis in a way that you could easily measure. Something about keeping in mind the nature of situational environments and scientific biases while you took care to control the setting in order to better observe the effects of the experiment. – Essentially stating that your hypothesis should be constructed in a way that would help you answer the basic tenants of your original question.

.._Wait. What?_

It was around this point that he realized the true depth of his err. After all, exactly _what _was he trying to prove here anyway? And what was it that_ he actually _wanted? Sex? Friendship? A relationship? Or be doomed to live the life of the sexless uber-bachelor and man virgin extraordinaire?

_Well.. Now that you put it that way.._

He let loose a heavy sigh. Because the only answers he seemed to come up with ended up revolving around the man in various stages of undress and doing things to him that were probably both _impossible_, and still very much_ illegal_ in most of the southern states. While the other half seemed to be stuck dwelling on the less savory, yet probably more_ likely_ scenario of the man chasing him around camp using his ass for target practice. - Neither of which were particularly helpful in the long run.

Besides, applying Daryl Dixon to the scientific method? - God, he was _such _a dumb ass.

Because no offense to their resident badass or anything, but he was about ninety nine point nine percent sure that the man hadn't even made it to college let alone a physics class. And probably wouldn't have given a shit about the scientific method even if he had. No, he'd be too busy _teaching "_Bad Assery 101" and "Survival Training 1A – The Death Valley Edition" to worry about things like the inner workings of the internal combustion engine or the number of mechanical patents inventor and electrical engineer Nikola Tesla had submitted before his death in 1943.

By his very nature the man _couldn't_ be applied to any logical, science based formula. He blew all the constructs and variables right out of the water. He was an entirely different one in of himself. _An enigma._ In fact one would have to construct an entirely separate theory in which to simply quantify and accurately explain the man himself.

Huh.

…_Challenge considered_.

**A/N:** Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

"The difficulty lies, not in the new ideas, but in escaping the old ones, which ramify, for those brought up as most of us have been, into every corner of our minds." – John Maynard Keynes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is my fill response to the prompt posted on LJ at the TWD_Kink meme: _"Daryl/Glenn - Glenn decides he is going to woo Daryl." – _Please see original chapter for a complete series of warnings and other related information. *Rated for: adult language, adult situations, light slash, ridiculousness, and fluff.

**The Daryl Dixon Equation**

_**Chapter 4**_

**Step #4: Test with an experiment **

According to what he remembered, the forth step was the real clincher, because in order to prove your hypothesis as true or false, you first had to test the theory itself. The process really wasn't all that complicated. It was basic junior high science at it's finest. Insert tab A into slot B, and etc. All you had to do was remember that the experiment had to be performed on neutral ground in order to be considered scientifically accurate. And that the scientist in question needed to be prepared for the possibility of having to repeat the experiment more then once to prove it's accuracy.

Sounded easy enough right? …_Wrong._

In any other situation this whole mess wouldn't have been that big of a deal. He would have done what he had to do and moved on. It should have been _that _simple. Only it wasn't. Not even close. Because he had no fucking _clue _what he was even doing in the first place.

He wanted to get to know Daryl Dixon? Really? That was the best excuse his brain could come up with? ...Man, that was weak.

And naturally, just because shit tends to roll down hill, it was also somewhere around this point that he came to realize that the ultimate goal of this strategy was not simply just to understand Daryl Dixon, but to understand him in the _naked way_. – Something that in the end, only served to make everything about a hundred times worse then it already was.

So much for scientific neutrality…

Crap.

He let his head clunk down on the rickety old card table, barely missing his plate as he ground his forehead into the sticky plastic cover. Pointedly ignoring both Dale and Shane's confused looks as he prodded the soggy remnants of the over salted eggs they'd had for breakfast around his plate uneasily. T-dog had called it an omelet. But to be honest he had his doubts. Last time he'd checked an omelet was actually supposed to have more in it than, well, _egg_.

He made a frustrated sound in the back of his throat as he scraped his plate and set it next to the washing pile. Too focused on the problem at hand to notice the stares he was getting as the others followed his progress from the RV all the way back to his tent.

He zipped himself in and flopped down on his pile of sleeping bags. Digging the heel of his palms into his eyes until star bursts exploded across the span of his closed lids. Legs scissoring lethargically as he let his mind race.

_Gawd_, his libido really was all kinds of an asshole. Because contrary to popular belief, it was rather difficult to make a rational, logic based decision when his brain was screaming to abandon ship, at the same time as his dick was demanding: 'All ahead full Captain!'

It took a while but he eventually managed to broker an uneasy truce between his cock and his higher mental facilities by agreeing to a long session of information gathering and the possibility of acquiring the zombie apocalypse's version of a first date. - He had to blink at that. He wanted a date with Daryl Dixon? _This_ was his life?

Christ.

What were the operating parameters for such a situation? How did he go about making the first move? If this were back when everything was normal he'd probably have at least half a clue. He was still rather unclear about what two dudes actually did as far as dates went but he figured it couldn't be too different from dating a girl. ...He hoped. (Not that he had much experience in that field either mind you, but hey, what the hell right?)

Did gay guys even date? …Wait. Okay, stupid question.

Shit, it was official. He was a dating virgin. There was just no support literature for this type of humiliation. - See, this is where the internet had been a literal god send. A few months ago he could have just googled it and been on a 'gay dating advice for newbs' forum in less than two seconds flat.

But nowadays? He didn't have a friggin clue. What was he going to do? Invite the man out for a romantic moonlight squirrel hunt? Dine on canned ham and a few platefuls of some rather questionable looking forest mushrooms? …On second thought, for all he knew the man might actually prefer that.

_Fuck_. This was why step two was actually important. He didn't have the data to consider the problem logically. Hell, he didn't even the information to make an educated guess!

Test the hypothesis with an experiment? ...An experiment of what exactly? Just walk up to the man and ask him if he liked dudes? Because yeah, **that** would go over well…

He was pretty sure he'd be all but asking for a fist in the face for that one. And yet, the longer he thought about it the less impossible it seemed to get. Because he swore he was only finding more and more evidence that the man might not be as opposed to his advances as he'd initially imagined.

He decided to lay out what little evidence he had logically, determined to find a pattern, something, _anything _that he could work with.

He knew at the very least that the man liked him, probably even respected him a bit. And he knew he wasn't imagining the looks the man had been fixing him with of late. In fact it seemed as though whenever he turned around these days the older man was glaring right back.

At first he'd thought it was because the hunter had caught him staring. But then, as the days and weeks had progressed, he'd started to realize that the man was doing some staring of his own.

More than that, the man was practically pinning him down with that signature, dark eyed stare. His expression caught somewhere in between that of a thoughtful frown and something that looked disturbingly reminiscent of a wild animal scenting blood on the wind. (Something which he'd promptly decided to interpret as that of affection, since the alternative was a bit too horrifying to consider.)

…Anyway.

He bit his lip, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he stared up into empty space. Eyes only vaguely tracking the muted, daytime shadows of the surrounding forest as they streamed haphazardly across the ceiling of his dirty vinyl tent, still half convinced that his cock was trying to get him killed.

It just_ had_ to be Daryl _fucking_ Dixon didn't it?

**A/N:** Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! – I am epically sorry for the horrendously long wait in between updating this chapter. Terrible author is terrible. I am hoping to wrap this up in a chapter or two.

"_Everything must be taken into account. If the fact will not fit the theory-let the theory go." ― Agatha Christie (From: "The Mysterious Affair at Styles.")_


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is my fill response to the prompt posted on LJ at the TWD_Kink meme: _"Daryl/Glenn - Glenn decides he is going to woo Daryl." – _Please see original chapter for a complete series of warnings and other related information. *Rated for: adult language, adult situations, light slash, ridiculousness, and fluff.

**The Daryl Dixon Equation**

_**Chapter 5**_

**Step #5: Analyze results and draw a conclusion.**

His conclusions in a nut shell? He needed a _new_ freakin' theory!

He'd even considered asking Andrea, Lori, or even Carol for advice, but his ears had burned at the very thought, effectively nipping that particular pipe dream right in the butt. - Leaving him with nothing but a mounting sense of frustration and a growingly peevish inner voice that seemed to be channeling the 'thank you Captain Obvious' part of his brain by asking: _now what?_

Worst of all, his inner voice had a point. Because really, what was he going to do now? It was getting to the point where he felt like he had to do _something. _Hell, he'd even gotten desperate enough to flip through some of the old magazines someone had found stuffed in the back of the RV with the rest of Amy's stuff. In the end, he'd started ferreting the worn copies back to his tent so he could 'research' uninterrupted, skimming through the fashion tips, horoscopes, and glittery makeup ads until he came across the sections on relationship advice.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen..

According to the magazine there were a dizzying number of ways to flirt. Actually the magazine called them "flirtation tactics," which in retrospect was rather scary, considering the fact that all it made him think about was World War era battle strategies, and guerrilla warfare. Two things he figured had absolutely _no_ business being included in the same thought as 'dating advice' or 'human pair bonding'.

In truth, by the time he'd gotten through the first article he was more confused and intimidated then when he'd started. …_Fail_. - But like he'd said, by this point he was determined and edging towards the flip side of being overly desperate, so he decided to try it anyway.

The article put a lot of emphasis on flirting by touch. Which in truth was probably the most unhelpful portion he'd read to date since Daryl tended to avoid human contact, accidental or otherwise, like the fucking_ plague_. So, that was immediately a no-go. He wanted to _talk _to the man, not run him off to the next_ state_.

The articles nattered on about flirtatious smiles, and subtle preening, recommending anything from licking your lips to looping both thumbs into your belt loops and canting your hips. But he called bullshit right around the point where a particularly… _effervescent_ article claimed that nothing attracted a partner faster than something called 'pointing,' a tactic that included angling one's body towards the person in question. Something about showing personal interest on a physical level, yadda-yadda-yadda, psychological bull crap in a can, or whatever the hell it actually was. He'd pretty much stopped paying attention around that point anyway.

Did this shit actually work for people? Jesus!

It took a few more hours of flipping through the tattered stack of magazines to come across the only other halfway decent tip of the lot. Eye contact. Now _that_ didn't sound half bad. Painless, subtle, and far less creepy sounding than that other article that had suggested he suck in his chest and try to take deep breathes in order to make his chest look larger. _…Yes, really._

…Christ, no wonder the world had gone and ended on them.

So, he tried the whole 'eye contact' thing. He started sitting closer to the man at meal times, and making sure his tent was within eye shot whenever they set up camp in a new place. He began starting more conversations with him, seeking him out for help on things they both knew he could handle on his own. Each time going by what the article had suggested. Keeping his gaze focused on the other man for five second intervals before idly looking away. Enough to make sure the man noticed him watching, but subtle enough that it would make the man wonder exactly why he'd had his eye on him in the first place.

And for a few days he'd even been convinced that it'd been _working. _He'd felt suave, debonair, and something close to bad-ass as he'd pranced around camp. Excluding a James Bond level of coolness as his eyes dared to play chicken with the older man. Jittery with the excitement of forcing himself to play it cool as he followed the article's instructions down to the letter.

And it worked perfectly. …Until, well, it suddenly _didn't_ anymore…

Now, he was pretty sure he'd failed somewhere in the execution. Because lately, whenever he tried, the man simply swatted him away. Fixing him with that squinty-eyed, wounded predator look until the older man sidled out of range. Melting off into the background to do whatever it was the man actually did when he was trying to avoid someone.

Which, in Daryl's case, likely included anything from terrorizing the local Bambi population, to letting himself get fussed over by Carol. In fact, it had to be said that the hunter had lately taken to hanging around whenever the older woman was in the middle of cooking or sewing. Letting her ply him with choice tid-bits and quiet conversation as the timid woman did her best to butter up their resident bad-ass.

Actually, he wasn't entirely sure what he was more ticked off about, the fact that Daryl seemed to be going out of his way to avoid him, or that Carol's efforts seemed to be working where his had failed.

…_Balls_.

In fact, the longer he thought about it, the more he began to suspect that the people who had written these articles had never come up against anyone quite like Daryl Dixon before. Not that he was entirely surprised mind you; the man was a freakin' enigma. An enigma wrapped up in a burrito, and dunked in the kind of nonessential clarity unique to that of only the fucking _Bermuda Triangle_.

Christ, his life was insane. The dead were walking, they were barely surviving in a world that just wouldn't quit pitching them shit, and on top it all off he'd been blindsided by the early onset of his big gay crisis, and was currently stuck on a crossbow wielding red neck with an attitude problem. Gee, lucky him.

He had to admit that it was all getting a bit ridiculous. In fact he was beginning to feel like he was his own personal brand of kryptonite. Mind cock-blocking him with images of his own untimely demise via Daryl's fist, half way through the execution of whatever given strategy he was attempting to employ. And then, well, it all went down hill from there.

Utter. Mission. Failure. (FUBAR even!)

If one thing was clear, it was that he needed to switch up his game plan.

STAT.

**A/N:** Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love! One more chapter and this puppy should be complete.

"_All men can see these tactics whereby I conquer, but what none can see is the strategy out of which victory is evolved."_ - Sun Tzu


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** I don't own AMC's The Walking Dead or any of its characters. Wishful thinking aside.

**Authors Note #1:** This is my fill response to the prompt posted on LJ at the TWD_Kink meme: _"Daryl/Glenn - Glenn decides he is going to woo Daryl." – _Please see original chapter for a complete series of warnings and other related information. *Rated for: adult language, adult situations, light slash, ridiculousness, and fluff.

**The Daryl Dixon Equation**

_**Chapter 6**_

**Step #6: Report Results.**

It took him far longer than he cared to admit to dig down to the heart of the problem. Because somewhere in between that split-second at breakfast where he could have _sworn_ that the man had been winking at him, and the moment when his brain had finally kicked in; he suddenly realized that he'd been approaching the whole operation ass backwards from the very beginning.

Because really,_ he_ was a guy, _Daryl_ was a guy. And guys really didn't _do _subtle hints. Figures it would be that simple.

The point was that Daryl wouldn't recognize flirtation, subtle or overt, even if it danced the Macarena ass naked right in front of his face, wearing only Dale's bucket hat and Shane's Mossberg. Hell, knowing his luck, Daryl probably wouldn't even recognize flirtation in the first place. Handsome, emotionally stunted asshole that he was…

_Fuck it. This kind of problem called for the direct approach._

This called for the big guns. No more teenage advice columns or half remembered tips he'd overheard from his sisters when he'd come home for Christmas break. No more trying and epically failing on everything from subtle flirtation to dime store magazine strategies; which had included, to his eternal embarrassment, trying to win the man over with moves that had probably made him look just about as sexy and suave as a _newborn giraffe_.

Amy's magazines were _so _full of crap.

So ironically enough, in the end, he did exactly that. …_The direct approach_.

Admittedly, he probably could have chosen a more romantic locale. And yes, maybe he should have waited for a time when they weren't stuck in the middle of the forest, following some old deer trail in the pouring rain, where the imminent possibility of death by electrocution was looking more likely by the minute.

Hell, even_ he_ knew better than to make any important decisions when he was frustrated, horny and bored out of his skull. In fact, he didn't know what was worse. The fact that Daryl was acting the same as he always was. Showing him up without even trying; calm, cool, dirt-smeared, and _completely_ ignoring him despite the fact that they'd been tracking the same damn deer for what felt like _hours_. Or that he was pretty sure he had rain in places he didn't even want to _think _about. And he was about five minutes away from either drowning standing up, or growing a pair of _gills._

But when Daryl had sunk down on his haunches not five seconds later, thighs and ass outlined to perfection in those same, dirty blue jeans that looked like they were five seconds away from sliding off his lean, scar puckered hips. He just_ lost_ it.

It was just too fucking much.

He dropped his pack. Just shrugged it off right then and there in the middle of that mouldering forest path and let it hit the dirt with a disgustingly wet splat. Even his machete slipped from his fingers, clanging loudly against the rocks and exposed roots as he squared his shoulders and all but _launched _himself across the close distance.

The older man had just enough time to rise to his feet. But by then there was no stopping him. He was committed dammit. He was going to do this even if it_ killed_ him. (Which, all things considered, Daryl probably _would_, when the shock wore off.)

"Kid, what the fuck are you do–mmph!"

Because before Daryl could even so much as finish his sentence, he'd already crowded the man backwards, slamming him up against the closest tree the exact same time as he captured the man's lips in a bruisingly desperate kiss.

After that everything just stopped. Hell, the world could have started rotating backwards and the skies turned orange for all he would have either noticed or cared. Because all he could think was _this, yes, more_… And that it was good…

_Fuck,_ _it was good._

It was Daryl who pulled away first, chest heaving, fingers clenching down on his forearms on reflex as the hunter struggled for air. A base sounding growl working its way up from the back of his throat as the man's gaze went smouldering. Shock, surprise, arousal, and interest all warring for dominance across his expressive face as the man cocked his head and fixed him with his signature, dark eyed stare.

And okay, if he still hadn't been half certain that the man was just as likely to deck him as he was to swoop in and kiss him again, he probably would have come all over himself due to that mere _look_ alone.

For a moment they just stood there. Watching each other watch themselves. It seemed surreal after all these weeks. It felt awesome, and impossible, and a bit like he was about to spontaneously combust with the sheer intensity of it all.

"Christ kid… Is _this _why you've been twitchin' for the past few weeks?" Daryl finally exclaimed, suddenly sporting an expression that was startlingly reminiscent of a man whose fingers had just fallen on the final piece of a particularly troublesome jigsaw puzzle.

He boggled at him for a long moment before his brain caught up. _What? After all this time the man actually knew! He'd noticed and done nothing? Un-freaking-believable! - _But before he could get a word in edgewise, the man was talking again.

"Why didn't you just _say _so? Com're," the man hummed. Hooking him in and effectively smothering his indignant squawk with the eager press of his lips. One hand curling around his face as calloused fingers followed the curve of his rain soaked skin. The sensation going electric as Daryl's teeth pulled gently at his lower lip. All sharp teeth and heated promises as the man moved a few millimeters closer.

"Hey, I didn't see _you_ making any first moves, dumbass!" he shot back a few moments later, only pulling away when oxygen became a serious concern. Crossbow banging against the inside of his knee as Daryl leaned into him. The action rife with teasing friction and demanding presses as the man tried to regain his balance in the slippery, forest muck.

But as if in answer, Daryl just threw back his head and laughed. - They were deep, full bodied rumbles that pitched into the afternoon sky like providence. Rich, dark, and so unbelievably honest that he knew he'd do just about anything to hear them again.

So, instead of waiting for an answer, he surged up until it was _him_ pressing Daryl up against that tree. Capturing his thin, weather-chapped lips in a kiss that sent gentle shivers coursing down his spine…

The man's mouth tasted like tinder smoke and that stale, slightly tangy taste that was reminiscent of unbrushed teeth and old sweat. But he couldn't even bring himself to care. Because this was too good, too right, and somehow no where_ near_ enough. It was everything he hadn't even realized he'd been hoping for the whole god damned time.

_..And best of all? It finally seemed as though they were on the same god damned page.._

In fact, before he could even think it through, the man was already towing him in. Arms dirt smeared and rain slick as he pulled him close. Lips lazily possessive and firm as they trailed down the arch of his chin, following the frantic jump of his pulse as the man nipped him squarely across the jugular. Soothing the skin with the nub of his nose before he tipped his head up, forcing him to meet his eyes as the man's keen gaze fixed squarely on him.

"…Wanna take this somewhere else, kid?" the man murmured, voice deliciously rough as he hunched his shoulders back in the direction of camp.

And if he practically tripped over his own lips in his haste to answer, he figured that the small smile he got from Daryl in return was well worth the embarrassment.

**Step #7: Conclude with official findings: **

He didn't know the date, at least not exactly. And nor did he have a spare piece of paper and a pen in which to officially write it down. But he did have the moments. The memory of stumbling back to Daryl's tent, skin buzzing in arousal and nervous excitement as Daryl fumbled with the zipper. Trying and utterly failing at casual as Shane and Dale gave them the fish-eye from their seats around the fire. Barely noticing the easy smirk and knowing grin Andrea graced them with from her place on watch atop the RV, as Daryl yanked him in by the belt loops and took him down into the blankets.

He remembered the way Daryl gasped and bit down on his lower lip whenever he curled his hand around the hunter's length. Or the way the man rolled them over like he weighed next to nothing without warning. Fingers rain slick and curious as the man's hands ghosted down his flanks.

Actually, come to think of it, he remembered a whole hell of a lot that he probably couldn't even bring himself to _write down_, let alone even _think _about getting officially published in some new age science journal or psychological study if the world ever started running normally again.

…It was a shame really, gripping stuff and all that…

But then again, if he knew one thing about the scientific method, it was that his work wasn't even _close _to being done. There were still experiments to test, theories to confirm, and variables to smooth over. In fact, he was beginning to think that solving the "Daryl Dixon Equation" was a lot like following the instructions sewn into the labels of your clothing. - Lather, rise, wash, and most important of all, _repeat._

You know, for the good of…um..._Science._

**A/N:** This story is now complete. Please let me know what you think? Reviews and constructive critiquing are love!

_"Chemistry is all about getting lucky..." - _Robert Curl


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